


What Nightmares May Come

by DotyTakeThisDown



Series: A Losers Club Halloween [2]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, Halloween, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Pennywise (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DotyTakeThisDown/pseuds/DotyTakeThisDown
Summary: “We should do something for Halloween,” Stan says, breaking the comfortable silence. Bill tenses, wrapping his arms around his legs.“What, like, trick or treating?” Richie asks quietly, drawing something in the dirt with a stick. None of them have gone, not since Georgie.“Just.” Stan reaches up, trailing his finger down the line of fading scars. “Get together. I don’t want to be alone.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: A Losers Club Halloween [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1531700
Comments: 3
Kudos: 162





	What Nightmares May Come

** _October 1989_ **

Eddie leans his head back into the wind. It’s chilly, a taste of the winter to come. The spindly bushes and tall grass on the edge of the quarry provide little in the way of protection. The rest of the Losers Club is scattered around him, stretched out in the sun for what very well could be the last time this year.

“We should do something for Halloween,” Stan says, breaking the comfortable silence. Bill tenses, wrapping his arms around his legs.

“What, like, trick or treating?” Richie asks quietly, drawing something in the dirt with a stick. None of them have gone, not since Georgie.

“Just.” Stan reaches up, trailing his finger down the line of fading scars. “Get together. I don’t want to be alone.”

“N-Not my house.” Bill’s still staring at his knees, crumpled over. “My parents—th-they wouldn’t l-like it. Not now.”

“My mom wouldn’t mind,” Ben speaks up. He’s on his stomach, flipping through a library book. Something about Renaissance architecture. “What do you think?”

“I’m in,” Eddie says, anything to get out of his own house. Halloween doesn’t feel right anymore. Too many memories. They shouldn’t have to spend the nightmares alone.

“Me too.” Richie brushes his drawing away with a rough hand.

Mike raises his head, pillowed against his arm. “I can come by after my deliveries.”

“Bill?” Eddie asks.

He looks almost small, sitting on the ground in only a pair of shorts. There are goosebumps along his arms but he doesn’t seem to notice. He trails his knuckles against the ground. “Yeah, okay.”

“Then it’s settled.” Stan’s voice is bright but none of it reaches his eyes. “We’ll spend Halloween at Ben’s.”

***

“All right,” Ben says, surveying the coffee table, “we’ve got pizza, snacks, pop, candy, movies…anything else?”

“I think we’re set.” Stan perches on the arm of the couch. The curtains are carefully closed, to avoid looking out at any dark figures in the street. The TV hums with static. Eddie tries not to look at it, remembering _Poltergeist _and their last Halloween together.

Richie nudges open the first pizza box and grabs a slice, hissing as he burns his fingers.

“Leave some for the rest of us,” Eddie says, but his heart isn’t in it. He takes his own slice, the cheese stretching off in long strings.

Richie flips him off and drops down onto the loveseat, stretching his legs all the way across. He’s grown a ridiculous amount the past few months, becoming even longer and ganglier than before. Eddie scowls and sits on his legs. Richie kicks out, almost flipping him off on the floor.

“Dude.” Eddie glares at him, paper plate balanced on one hand. “You’re going to make me drop my pizza.”

“Then eat somewhere else!”

“This is a two-person couch. You can share.”

“I don’t think there’s room.” Richie props his heels up on the arm. “And, technically, this is a loveseat.”

“Well, my mom isn’t here.” Eddie knocks Richie’s legs out of the way and sits down. “I guess you’re just going to have to share with me.”

Richie looks away at that, reaching for another slice of pizza. Bill surveys the movie selection, tapping his fingers along the titles. “Where sh-should we start?” Bill asks.

“_The Breakfast Club_,” Stan says. “Obviously.”

“Didn’t you just watch that two days ago?” Richie folds his pizza in half, to better shovel it into his mouth.

“What’s your point?”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Le-let’s put it to a vote. Otherwise we-we won’t be watching anything.”

_The Breakfast Club _wins out in the end. Slowly, everyone gets pizza and drinks and settles into their seats. Bill takes the armchair, the one that creaks as he moves.

There’s an open space in the armchair next to him, one that belongs to Bev. Eddie wonders how she’s doing, if she’s thinking about them tonight. Maybe they could call her and she could be here too, if only for a little while.

Richie slides off the couch and returns with a handful of candy. Eddie jumps as a package of SweeTarts and another of Runts land in his lap.

“I know Runts are your favorite,” Richie murmurs.

“Oh fuck off.” Eddie tears open the SweeTarts and eats them all at once, sugar and artificial flavors melting in his mouth. Next to him, Richie’s hand rests against the couch. He glances down at it, those long fingers, and remembers them twining between his own. He hasn’t thought about it, tries not to, because he can’t help but wonder why they haven’t done it again.

If he took it, would Richie’s hand feel as soft and warm now as it did two years ago? He could find out, right now. Cross those few inches between them, be the bold one tonight.

Eddie stares at it, for a long time, but he doesn’t take it. He doesn’t think he could stand it if Richie drew away from, if he shot him a confused—or worse, disgusted—look. Eddie pulls his eyes away, and eats the Runts one at a time.

_Breakfast Club_ comes to an end and Bill gets up, switching it out for _Indiana Jones _without waiting for anyone’s opinion or protest. Eddie grabs a blanket from the stack and curls up as tight as he can, head resting on the arm of the couch. Richie’s cold feet push their way between his legs but he doesn’t kick out in retaliation. Not this time.

Eddie lets his eyes slip closed. For once, he doesn’t brace himself for whichever nightmare will come tonight, reassured by the warmth of the blanket and the soft voices on the TV. On the floor, Ben and Stan debate whether Pennywise would turn into one giant snake or a nest of regular-sized snakes when faced with Indy.

Richie’s toes wriggle against his skin until, at last, he falls still and relaxed. Eddie lifts his head to see Richie on the other end of the couch, already asleep. His eyelashes fan across his cheeks, bangs falling long into his eyes.

Eddie’s stomach trembles. He wonders what it would be like for Richie to fall asleep with his head pillowed on his thigh, how soft that hair would be if he pushed his fingers through it to get it out of Richie’s eyes. The warmth of Richie’s breath against his skin.

Eddie drops his head back, clenching his eyes shut. Richie’s his _friend, _like the rest of the Losers Club. It’s not like he’s about ask Bill if he can play with his hair. Besides, if Richie knew, he would never hear the end of it.

It’s better if he just doesn’t think about it at all.

***

Eddie is below the wellhouse. Even before the darkened stone walls and standing water come into focus, he’d know the thick damp smell anywhere. His feet slosh through the water as he walks. He tries not to think about the dead that might be lurking below the surface. Something brushes against his ankle. He screams but when he looks down there’s nothing there.

Eddie presses on until his shoes find dry stone again. There, on the other side of the mountain of lost things, is Richie. He hangs in the air like he always does, eyes glazed over with that eerie light. It’s new that Richie is dressed as a vampire, the plastic fangs glinting on the ground below his feet.

“Fuck,” Eddie hisses, tripping over a toy train in his hurry to reach Richie’s side. “Fuck.”

It takes a few tries for his fingers to finally latch onto Richie’s sneaker and pull him down. He floats gently, like a brand-new balloon. Even brought back to earth, Richie doesn’t wake. He stands there, with his opaque eyes and blank expression. His body feels like a statue, muscles frozen in place, when Eddie grabs onto his shoulders.

“Wake up, Richie,” Eddie begs. “Please wake up. Please.”

He doesn’t. Eddie can feel the wetness on his cheeks, even if he barely notices the tears falling. He looks over his shoulder, searching for the rest of the Losers Club. If Richie won’t wake for him, maybe he will for them. Maybe they could carry him out.

There’s no one there. He’s alone in this place, alone with Richie.

Eddie turns back, his hands moving from Richie’s shoulders to the sides of his face. He traces his thumbs over Richie’s cheeks, taking him in. His heart threatens to climb its way out of his chest and up his throat.

“Come home,” Eddie says, whispering now. “Come back to me.”

And then he leans in for a kiss. It doesn’t feel like much of anything, without any frame of reference for his mind to draw from. It’s dry and short, skin pressed against skin, no more intimate than holding hands. Eddie pulls back, terrified to even breathe.

The light fades from Richie’s eyes until all that’s left is the same old brown. Richie focuses on his face, mouth shifting into a grin. “I think you need to stop watching _Sleeping Beauty_.”

Eddie shakes his head, breath huffing out of him. The tears flow down on his cheeks in earnest, hot and tasting of salt.

“Get away!” Stan screams. “No! Get away!”

Eddie bolts upright on the couch, panic rocketing through him. The breath catches in his lungs and his hands flail, searching for his inhaler. His eyes dart around the room, checking the shadows for Pennywise.

Stan tangles in his blankets on the floor, hands clawing at something none of them can see. Something that, this time, isn’t real. Richie’s hand bumps against Eddie’s arm, inhaler tucked between his fingers. Eddie nods his thanks, unable to speak, and brings it to his mouth for a breath.

“Stan.” Mike nudges his shoulder from a safe distance. “Stan, wake up.”

Stan’s arms and legs flail out as his eyes burst open. Breath shudders into him and he flops back against the floor. His hair curls around his face, damp with sweat. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mike says, as Ben gets off the couch and flicks a light on. “I have them too.”

“I th-think we all d-do.” Bill’s voice is half-muffled by the blanket over his face. “Do you wa-want to talk about it?”

Stan shudders, clenching his eyes shut for a long moment. “I’m sure you already know what I see.”

Eddie does know, can picture the painted lady as easily as his own leper. “Should we—watch another movie?” Richie asks

“Yeah. Let’s watch something.” Ben’s voice is rough and squeaky as he goes to check the stack. “_Die Hard_ or _Gremlins?__” _

“I think _Die Hard _is the only real choice here,” Richie says, and that’s the one that goes into the player. Eddie sits up, unable to relax against the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He keeps his inhaler tucked against his chest like a beloved stuffed animal.

Ben falls asleep first, snoring softly on the couch, with Mike and Bill close behind. Stan gets up to turn the light off again before settling back down. The light of the TV flashes in his eyes until at last they slip closed.

Eddie glances over at Richie, expecting to see him already asleep. Instead, he finds the light reflecting off his glasses, the boy sitting up and awake. Richie meets his gaze and hurriedly fixes his attention back on the movie.

The dream comes flooding back all at once—Richie’s cheeks beneath his hands, their lips pressed together. Eddie’s cheeks flare with heat and he’s grateful for the darkness.

He often finds Richie beneath the wellhouse in his nightmares, taken instead of Bev, although it’s rare that his kiss is enough. Sometimes it’s Bev that wakes Richie, or Bill, but most often nothing will break the trance. In those nightmares, Eddie cries and clings to him while the rest of the Club looks on. Richie’s skin is too cold beneath his touch, his pulse gone, his eyes lifeless. In those nightmares, it doesn’t matter what he does. They’re too late to save him.

It’s not the first time he’s kissed Richie in his nightmares, but it _is_ the first time he’s woken from it and looked his best friend in the eye.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Eddie asks.

Richie nods at the TV. “I want to see the end.”

Eddie resists the urge to snort. Richie could recite _Die Hard_ to himself verbatim. “Did you have a nightmare too?”

“Yeah.” Richie’s voice is too quiet, almost lost beneath the machine gun fire. “You?”

“Same as every other night.”

Richie swallows hard, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I was trapped in the coffin in Niebolt and all I could hear outside was It laughing. If Stan hadn’t woken us up, I’d still be there.”

“I dream about Niebolt a lot.” Eddie shudders as he remembers the darkened house, the illusory doors, the floors falling away, It coming at him from out of the fridge. In the worst ones, he can feel the clown’s clammy touch, smell Its rotted meat breath. “Sometimes you save me.”

“Yeah.” Richie’s mouth twists into an imitation of a smile. “You too.”

“Sometimes—” Eddie stops, not sure how to say this next part, not sure why he’s bringing it up at all. He can still feel the damp chilled air against his skin, offset by Richie’s warmth. “Sometimes the nightmares are about you. It taking you, instead of Beverly.”

Richie glances at him, eyes lingering. “I’ve had those.”

“Where It takes me?” Eddie’s mouth feels dry at the very thought. “Or you?”

“Yes.” Richie shifts, inching closer on the couch, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Both.”

“What happens?” Eddie asks, his throat too tight. “When It takes me?”

“We find you, just like Bev,” Richie says, firmly. “We bring you back home.”

“Yeah.” Eddie can’t look him in the eye, stares at the screen instead. “You too.”

“How does it happen?” The words bump into each other in the rush to get out of Richie’s mouth. “How do you save me, in your nightmares?”

“Oh.” Eddie’s whole face is burning. “I don’t know. It—it changes, you know?”

“Sure.” Richie’s fingers play with an M&Ms wrapper, twisting it into a long ribbon. “Yeah.”

“What about me?”

Richie’s ears turn red. His fingers twist faster and tighter, until the wrapper tears in half. Only then does he look up, finding Eddie’s gaze still on him. He licks his lips and Eddie realizes with shock that Richie is _terrified. _

It’s not the fear from the days when Pennywise was hunting them, not the unbridled terror when It showed up in the garage, or in Niebolt, or under the wellhouse. This is softer but also deeper somehow. A fear of living rather than dying.

“Richie,” he says, barely more than a breath. He’s leaning closer, bracing his hand on the back of the couch. “How do you save me?”

“I don’t know.” Richie doesn’t move away. If anything, he just keeps inching closer, his eyes too wide and his breath too fast. He’s lying and, for once, he’s terrible at it. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re lying.” Eddie leans back again, doesn’t miss the quick glance of Richie’s eyes down to his lips.

“Fine,” Richie squeaks. “You’re right. Last time, your mom was there and she—”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie interrupts. They’re so close together he can smell the garlic on Richie’s breath along with the cloying sweetness of sugar. It’s a little unpleasant but he can’t ask Richie to go brush his teeth in the middle of this—can he?

“It’s—it’s usually Bev,” Richie says, almost stammering now. “Once it was Gretchen—ugh, that one was weird. And sometimes—”

“It’s like this?” Eddie takes a deep breath and presses their lips together.

In his dreams, this moment felt like nothing. Here, in reality, it’s _everything. _It’s Richie’s soft gasp against his mouth, the strong taste of artificial cherry, the softness of lips pressed against his own. It’s the thunder of his heart in his ears, the feel of Richie’s cheek beneath his palm, his weight braced on his knees for balance.

Listening to people brag in the hallways and backs of classrooms hadn’t prepared him for the strangeness of it. Richie’s lips roll against his own, guiding them. It’s dryer than he expected, and louder. Their noses bump together and they can’t quite get the right angle for their lips but Eddie doesn’t care. He’s _kissing _Richie.

Eddie feels like there’s a storm inside of him, thunder rumbling in his lungs, lightning crackling in his gut. He’s afraid, afraid that they’ll never escape the nightmares, afraid that there will always be new ones on the horizon. His whole body stiffens. Richie’s hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentle touch. His fingers stroke the line of his jaw, down his throat, to the center of his chest where they push against him, as if Richie is reminding him to breathe.

Ben snorts in his sleep and they jump apart. Eddie laughs, quiet and startled, and Richie offers him a sheepish grin in return.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “That’s exactly how it happens.”


End file.
